


Victory

by icandrawamoth



Category: The Handmaid's Tale (TV), The Handmaid's Tale - Margaret Atwood
Genre: Blood, Blood and Gore, Comment Fic, Community: comment_fic, Gen, Murder, POV First Person, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-31
Updated: 2017-05-31
Packaged: 2018-11-07 02:15:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11049192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/icandrawamoth/pseuds/icandrawamoth
Summary: I don't know why my eyes fall on the scissors poking out from under the edge of the chair in the living room, probably dropped there last time she did her mending.I do know what I'm going to do next.





	Victory

I don't know why the commander's wife chooses today to insist we take a walk together with hopes the fresh air will encourage my body to do its job. I don't know why she trusts me enough to leave me alone in the entryway when the phone rings and she goes back to answer. I don't know why my eyes fall on the scissors poking out from under the edge of the chair in the living room, probably dropped there last time she did her mending.

I do know what I'm going to do next.

In moments, I've crossed the room silently and tucked them into my dress. My heart is racing as I reassume by position by the door, the hard edges of the metal digging into my flesh. I hardly care; I have something now. A thing I can act with, though what that act is is yet to be determined.

Serena Joy returns, a flat smile on her face. “Shall we?”

* * *

I make it back to my room, half-surprised I've managed not to do something that would give me away. I double and triple check to make sure no one could possibly be watching, then I slip my treasure from its hiding spot. My hands run along its smooth surfaces almost reverently.

A pair of scissors, a sharp edge, a weapon. Something to change my fate. A phrase I heard in a movie Hannah used to watch over and over. Your problems have nothing on mine, princess.

I'm to meet with the commander tonight, another round of games and drinks. I could bring the scissors, attack when he isn't paying attention. Would it be worth it? I would never escape, after. Never see Luke or our daughter again. Paying the bastard back for what he did to this world – our world, _my_  world – wouldn't change much, anyway.

Or would it? One less commander, one less voice to hold up this regime. Just a step, but maybe it would make a difference. Maybe when the other handmaids hear my story, they'll be inspired. Maybe they'll make a kids movie out of me one day. (No, it would be too violent. Too much adult content. Far too much, even for an adult.)

Hell, maybe I wouldn't even be killed. I've still got two good ovaries. Maybe they'll find a way to punish me like they did Ofglen – maybe something far worse, but something that still keeps me useful.

The thought makes me shudder, but most thoughts do nowadays.

I smooth my thumb over the sharp metal again, consider my options. Maybe I could take myself out after him. A life and a life, payment of a sort. He would be dead, and I would escape.

There's more than one type of escape.

* * *

The scissors are tucked into my sleeve as I make my way down the hall, not quite with a solid plan in mind.

He greets me as usual, already setting up the scrabble board, and I smile and make the same small talk. I've learned how to play him: I start in with the flirting immediately.

He smiles slyly and pours me a drink.

A little while later, I'm letting him win, feigning greater inebriation than I truly feel. Flirting more heavily. He looks at me, and I give him my best “come hither” look. It's unpracticed, but it seems to work. He smiles and moves in, making to put his hands on me, lips landing on mine.

The decision makes itself.

The scissors are in my hand and plunged into his neck before the thoughts are fully formed. He makes a soft, punched-out sort of noise as he falls back, and then I can see the surprise in his wide eyes.

I twist the blades, feeling resistance in his flesh, pull harder, rip them out and stab again. Then again.

I can see him trying to cry for help, but all that comes out of his mouth are wet, gurgling sounds.

I'm smiling. I feel vicious, victorious. Warm, red blood is thick on my hands. I kneel down in front of him, looking him straight in the face. I want him to know. I want him to know it was me, that this is my choice, that he _earned_  this.

His eyes meet mine, wide, shiny, and I think, for just a second, he understands. Then he slumps over.

I stand, the slick metal still clenched in my hand, looking down at him like a hunter on a first kill.

It feels good.

**Author's Note:**

> For a comment_fic prompt: The Handmaid's Tale, Offred and the commander, she sneaks a pair of sharp scissors and kills him during one of their game nights as punishment for helping to create Gilead.


End file.
